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The Way It Is

The frame of your bed was a light, ashy wood scarred and blemished by paws, like a peach pit.
Gossamer, crepe drapes wore lint balls at the bottom and I glimpsed a brown mould stain, maybe maple syrup.
Once, I held the posts of your bed tightly and when I released, pinholes marked my fingers for fifteen minutes.
That's when the wind blew into your drapes and I imagined children hiding behind them.
The air is pungent and flirty, wrapping the lily's fragrance around my head.
Voices from next door's conversation are warped by walls and insulation making me think of that great Hackman film.

Should I kill you?
In your sleep, I'll snuff the life and spill your ashes over the dust bowl.
I'll save a lock of hair and press it gently into my album labeled, "Delilah's scrapbook."

The earth is rotating to a prodigious song
and bitterness cascades over memory effortlessly.

Rosanne Agasee


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